


Criss-Crossing the Boundaries of Platonic

by wistfulpisces



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Jealous Sherlock, Light Angst, M/M, Military Kink, Non-Consensual Drug Use, fairly detailed discussion of murder, horrific overuse of italics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-01-31 05:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12674955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wistfulpisces/pseuds/wistfulpisces
Summary: Sherlock had always delighted in those times when necessity called for John to pull rank. This was not a secret between the two of them, merely another element of that wordlessly accepted list of things between them that criss-crossed the boundaries of platonic.This was different.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first Sherlock fic and most of the first chapter has been sitting on my laptop for a week now, so I thought 3am was an appropriate time to finish the opening and post it. Let's see how this goes. Hasn’t been edited by anyone but myself. Please let me know what you think!

Stupid, he was so bloody _stupid_.

It had been John’s idea, as such things usually are, but Sherlock couldn’t find it within himself to be angry – or indeed even a healthy amount of irritated. He hastily shoved some notes in the general direction of the cabbie and rushed into the cool night air of Baker Street to assist John’s alighting from the vehicle. Sherlock struggled with the all but dead weight of his incapacitated friend, careful to support his head so it didn’t loll to one side. John wouldn’t thank him for any unnecessary neck pain come morning.

No, best not to think of that yet, that far off time that seemed so removed from reality in the near pitch black of the night. The moon was suspiciously absent.

Sherlock wondered distantly what the cabbie would’ve thought of the two of them, with John in his current state. As he fumbled for his keys while one arm remained a stabilising force around his friend, his distracted mind answered him automatically.

_A ten – no, eleven hour shift (extent to which their breath was greasy and stale, tired droop of their face and lilt of their voice); lives alone (hair cut recently but unevenly at the back in a universally undesirable manner, obviously self-performed); not from the area (took the most expedient route, wary of being caught not doing so, unwilling to take alleys or backstreets)._

Finally, the door clicks open and they are rescued from the night’s chill.

_Deals marijuana on the side, but no particularly hard substances (smell was detectable in the vehicle, but they were not one for taking anything; obviously nothing hard with such a flustered disposition) – not adverse to a little criminal activity then. Probably wouldn’t have even taken a second glance at the two of them after they’d paid and the door had shut behind them. Just needed the cash and then onto the next job._

Extraneous. Focus on the features of interest.

Sherlock heaved John past the threshold and struggled to kick the door closed without making enough noise to wake Mrs. Hudson. John’s breathing was regular, but so quiet that Sherlock stilled for a few moments just to reassure himself that he could actually hear it.

He had been such an idiot to go along with the plan.

John wasn’t supposed to have been bait, just a sharp set of eyes and ears where he was needed. The killer was suspected to be female, average height, brunette, manicured fingernails, attractive but not unusually so. Not enough that someone whose area that was would remember her precisely, remember her as more than a pretty face – no, outwardly memorable only as much as any other woman in a bar wanting for you to buy her a drink.

Sherlock didn’t know if they _(he)_ had been wrong in their _(his)_ assessment of the previous crime scenes, but John had been drugged despite his not fitting the killer’s archetype. The previous victims had been tall, more lean than muscular, dark hair.

More like Sherlock.

John had shot down the idea before Sherlock could even suggest it aloud, the determined set of his expression making it clear that this was not something on which a compromise could be reached. This was a matter of personal safety, and they both knew that in such circumstances, only one of them was right.

So John had gotten his way and was agreed to be the more acceptable choice. The safer choice. And then his voice had begun to sound distorted and slurred, the vowels blending together and tripping over the consonants, and Sherlock had _known_. Known, even though he trusted that John hadn’t taken his eyes off of his glass for more than a split second, even though John had muttered that the bartender was male while his drink was being poured. John liked to sound in control and sure of himself; his voice rarely shook in much higher pressure situations than this, but even when it did, it never sounded this unsteady. Lestrade had given him an acquiescing nod a moment after the words had filled the unmarked police car and Sherlock’s head had snapped up, then Sherlock fled into the crowded bar across the street, a hive-like intensity to his painfully singular focus.

_Get John out!_

Stumbling up the final stair and into their flat, Sherlock was physically exhausted. Fully aware that the hyperactivity of his racing mind at present meant that he would not be making use of his own bed that night, he made the logical decision to leave John in his bedroom. His friend would be more comfortable there – and it was a shorter distance to it from his habitual thinking spot on the lounge than to John’s bedroom: if for any reason John were to be in need of assistance, he would be there in mere moments.

Yes, this was best.


	2. Chapter 2

When John finally awoke, it was to a veritable assault on his senses. His mouth was parched beyond recognition, as though it had been rubbed raw, coated in glue, and desert sand had been sprinkled liberally onto every inch. Although his back was suspiciously lacking in the assorted aches he usually experienced after a fitful night’s sleep, his head was positively pounding, seeming ready to split open at the slightest movement. This was not alleviated by the insistent ringing of what John’s sleep-addled mind soon realised was a mobile phone.

Groaning, John threw out his right arm to grab for it on his bedside table – and was greeted instead with soft linen. He chanced a frown, making the effort to crack open an eyelid.

Not his room, certainly. The bed was too wide, hedonistically luxurious in the pure comfort it provided. That explained the non-existence of his expected pains.

It occurred to John just as the incessant ringing finally stopped that it hadn’t been his ringtone at all.

He sat up as slowly as he could, levering himself upright with both hands braced firmly on the mattress beside him. His headache lifted slightly, just enough to think a little clearer, now that the noise that had disturbed him had ceased.

He blinked languidly, sure that there were vital pieces of evidence still evading him. An absentminded shifting of his legs assured him that he was still wearing trousers, however the woollen jumper he had worn the day prior lay folded at the foot of the bed. In its place was the old t-shirt he usually wore to sleep in. His shoes were placed neatly on the floor.

John ran a hand over his sleep-worn face and glanced at the bedside table beside him. As if by some miracle, a glass of water and a small bottle of ibuprofen sat there, waiting to be noticed. He squinted at them, unsure whether he should blindly trust that Sherlock had had the foresight to provide such things. A cursory examination of the bottle and the contents within revealed that they were indeed the right pills. They slid delightfully smoothly down his throat.

Closing his eyes, he rested his head only briefly on the headboard behind him before he remembered Sherlock’s mobile. It was only when the man wished to completely immerse himself in his thoughts that he was ever not in the same room as the device. John crawled to the edge of the bed and rummaged in the top drawer to retrieve it.

It was locked with a passcode that he had neither any desire or hope of guessing correctly, though the lock screen showed a missed call and four unread messages from Lestrade. Hazy images that may have been memories flitted through his mind, and he remembered the case. The noise of Bonfire bar; the bartender smiling amicably at him and saying in a silky smooth voice, “You waiting for someone?”; turning away after an offhand response and striking up a casual conversation with a woman standing nearby; waiting and waiting and then the sudden onset of disorientation; Sherlock’s arms around him and his cologne engulfing him in the cab... He must have been drugged.

Overwhelmed by the sudden wave of guilt and shame that washed over him, he burrowed further into his slump. How could he have been so careless? He had probably bollocksed the whole night’s investigation.

He leaned over once more to return the phone to its rightful place and something in the drawer caught his attention, a corner of it peeking out beneath a hoard of paper and miscellaneous items. Without thinking too deeply or considering whether he really wanted to know if it was what his affected brain had suspected, he reached in and grabbed it.

Several long moments later, which had consisted of John staring at the object, silent and still, the door opened and Sherlock strode in.

“You were incapacitated last night and I hadn’t the strength nor the resolve to carry you to your own room. Since I had no intention of sleeping myself, it seemed prudent to leave you here. No need to read into it.”

If John had been paying attention to vocal inflection and facial expressions and body language and all the things that Sherlock prided himself on his ability to notice, he would have been tempted to try to understand why his friend sounded so dismissive. That was usually John’s job description: understand and act accordingly.

Instead, John wondered how Sherlock Holmes – arguably the most observant man in England – had yet to notice what had happened. He willed Sherlock to see him as he was, slouching where he sat, both of his hands holding things that weren’t his.

Or – shouldn’t have been.

_I don’t care that I slept in your bed, you idiot. That, I don’t need an explanation for. I care about this._

“I believe I know where the killer will strike next. It continues to elude me as to why _you_ were drugged – that makes no sense and doesn’t fit the pattern. It frustrates me to no end, I assure you, but –”

Hands paused mid-gesture, like a puppet suddenly finding itself without instruction, it appeared that Sherlock had finally taken stock of his friend. John’s face seemed frozen and distant, as if there were an invisible wall standing stoic between the two men. Sherlock was used to having the ability to decipher John’s mood from his body with a glance, so often did the other man allow himself to be seen candidly in Sherlock’s presence. He was used to noticing where boundaries would have been between ordinary people in their situation and stepping over them after a mere moment’s thought.

Now, he realised, staring at John’s hands, there was more than just a boundary that could be ignored.

John was holding a photograph. A little torn and weathered with age, like it had been kept in a wallet or a back pocket at some point. It was an old Polaroid, undated but for the caption: _John returning home for the first time._

The small rectangular photograph depicted a young John, seeming tall by way of comparison, as he stood with his arms wrapped tightly around a smiling Harry Watson and a woman who could have only been their mother. John was wearing his military uniform, clearly just home from his first tour. 

No, this was certainly not a boundary, a wall or even a whole city between them, this gaping hole that surged with every passing moment of silence, threatening to tear apart the fabric of everything they had built together. Wider than the eye could see or the mind could grasp, immovable in its expanse – it was an ocean.

And when John finally looked up and their gazes met, Sherlock could see that the ocean was contained within John’s stormy eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halloween may have been two weeks ago, but every time I read this ending I involuntarily reenact a ghost impression.
> 
> Hope you liked the chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

“Sherlock, why –” John looked like he was trying very, very hard to retain a semblance of calm. “– why the _fuck_ do you have this in your bedside drawer?”

There was no escape, no way for Sherlock to downplay this with a roll of his eyes and a careful examination of his wristwatch. This was far beyond the level of invasion of privacy that John had grown tolerant of, instead veering dangerously into the uncertain territory of a momentous transgression that could cost Sherlock his best _(and only)_ friend.

“ _Don’t,_ ” John enunciated with spine-tingling clarity, “tell me that you found it lying around or you only did so recently – it was on the bottom, sticking out from under a pile of things, one of which was a dentist’s report. We both know when the last time you went to the dentist was.”

 _Of course,_ Sherlock grumbled internally, _he chooses now of all times to be observant._ He resisted the urge to close his eyes for a second’s reprieve from John’s piercing stare. That would be as good as admitting defeat. He just needed to _think._

Unfortunately, the mind he had spent his whole life cultivating so as to be relied on in stressful situations was mysteriously blank. He hadn’t even the presence of mind to scold himself for leaving the photograph in such an obvious place. In fact, he had exactly two words stuttering through his head.

Fight – flight – fight – flight – fight – flight –

freeze.

He had been silent for too long, John’s hurricane expression growing rapidly more tempestuous with every passing moment. Realising this, his mouth started to shape words without his consent, engaging in a fight of its own – keeping John.

“John, I – you should understand that – I never _intended_ to keep it, I – I was just – I _happened_ upon it in your – in your bedroom one day and I had never seen – well, I wanted to conduct an – let’s say an experiment of sorts, using –”

The sound John made deep in his throat could only have been described as a growl, his eyes narrowing into slits. _You are on very thin ice, Sherlock Holmes._

“No! I didn’t experiment _on_ it, merely _with_ it. There was no damage to the photograph itself, I assure you. I –” Sherlock closed his eyes, hating himself, hating the shaking timber of his voice, how its usual smoothness had been abandoned, the rich baritone pitched several tones higher in distress. A voice dreadfully reminiscent of Mycroft’s echoed in the back of his mind. _Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

No, John made him stronger with the fiery intensity of a comrade found on the battlefield. Every time John muttered _amazing_ or _fantastic,_ his focus was sharpened in a way he had only deluded himself cocaine could accomplish: John made him quicker, wittier; more content, less lonely. Happier.

But this was a question of logic, not of sentiment.

His eyes remained closed, unable to force himself to look at his best friend’s face.

“If you were to leave, I – I would understand. I know this is… I know the depth of this infraction.” Of course he would understand. John treasured photographs the way he did tea, or the smile on someone’s face after he had helped them, or those times when he could persuade Sherlock to eat something for breakfast with him, or those preposterous Bond movies, or the graceful way Sherlock played the violin when he played for him, or reading in his armchair on quiet days when it rained.

Initially it had been irritating that the flat had become littered with photo frames almost overnight. He thought they were redundant – why use vital space in the physical world for such a trivial thing, when the moment could be captured in its entirety in one’s mind? John had reminded him that not everyone had a mind palace, thank you very much. Eventually it had become endearing for him to turn in the living room and spy a photograph of John and Mrs. Hudson at Christmastime, John wearing that awful jumper he called “festive, you idiot” and both of them sporting matching smiles of pure warmth.

But that wasn’t just it, that wasn’t the true extent of his misdeed. John held the paraphernalia of his army dalliance remarkably close to his heart. His medical equipment and the Sig were within reach, but his fatigues, his medallions, letters from the friends he had made during that time – they all had a place in the back of his wardrobe, and were kept under lock and key in his chest. Sherlock had had no right to invade such a place, for he had no standing in John’s heart. He was his friend _(colleague, even)_ and flatmate, and that was all.

He had not only trespassed into John’s bedroom and taken something he prized immensely, he had been an intruder into John’s heart, somewhere he certainly didn’t belong.

Sherlock opened his eyes a long moment after the resigned words had left him, and was perplexed at the slackening of John’s jaw. Wasn’t this what he wanted?

“You’re an idiot.” A beat, and then, in a whisper, “Why do you always do this?”

Sherlock frowned in dislike at the name and confusion at the question.

“I’ll admit that I’m royally pissed off at the moment, and I’m in two minds about whether I want to know what experiment has you so – so _flustered,_ but I’m not going to leave.”

Such an admirable amount of self control was expended in the way of ensuring Sherlock’s mouth didn’t drop open – that would be too much for his pride to handle – that as a result, he was unable to prevent his eyes widening.

“Maybe it says something about me and how – how fucking self-destructive I am, that I’m willing to stay with you despite things like this. Not to mention the fact that I was _drugged_ last night while working with you.” An involuntary sound of repentance emerged from the back of Sherlock’s throat, which caused John’s expression to soften some. “But I’m telling you plainly, Sherlock: there is nothing you could do that would drive me away from you for good.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Sherlock murmured, almost automatically.

“I wouldn’t,” John said firmly.

Sherlock swallowed. A heavy silence filled the space between them for a time, but Sherlock felt like his friend was within sight distance again.

“You can have it back.” He cleared his throat against the raspiness that had developed there. “There’s nothing wrong with it apart from a little dust.”

“Good.”

“I cannot promise in good faith not to enter your bedroom without your knowledge again -”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. I know you well enough by now,” John said on a sigh.

“- but I will swear not to keep something like this from you again.”

John nodded thoughtfully as if turning the words over in his mind, holding them up to the light for consideration. “Good,” he settled on. “That’s a start.”

Sherlock exhaled like he had temporarily forgotten how to breathe. He almost couldn’t believe how relatively well this awful situation had panned out. It seemed to finally sink in that John was staying. He was suspicious and hurt by the breach in trust, but he wouldn’t leave.

“You haven’t eaten yet; I’ll make toast. Jam?” Sherlock mumbled, his gaze focused not on John's face, but on the patch of skin visible where his friend's worn t-shirt had slipped off his left shoulder.

“Strawberry,” John affirmed, suddenly sounding exhausted. Figuring Sherlock deserved to spare the effort, he added: “And tea, please.”

Sherlock nodded meekly, collected his phone and left the room, hesitating for just a moment before gently shutting the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating and tag changes. This chapter is heavy on exposition and does go into detail about some (fictional, but still pretty gruesome) acts of murder. Please be wary if that isn't your cup of tea.

A while later, the bedroom door opened. This was followed by the appearance of a tray bearing two cups of tea and a plate with several pieces of toast and, finally, the reappearance of the man holding it.

John straightened up, accepting the peace offerings.

Sherlock gingerly lowered himself on to the edge of his own bed, to which his friend responded with raised eyebrows. Finally, Sherlock relented, shuffling over until his outstretched legs rested beside John and his teacup sat atop his thighs.

Silence reigned for a time.

“So this experiment…” John began around a mouthful of jam.

Sherlock averted his gaze towards the periodic table hanging on the wall before clearing his throat, his eyes coming to rest on the bedsheets. “John,” he said softly, almost pleading, “the case.”

A nod of understanding. _Later._

“Tell me again, from the beginning,” John said. _Tell me that what happened last night wasn’t a complete waste._

Sherlock’s fingertips came together under his chin as he arranged his thoughts. “Lestrade called three nights ago, saying that a man had been found outside Ignition bar with a fatal stab wound to the back of the neck, which had severed the brain stem. The letter M had been carved into his chest, post-mortem and haphazardly, with a knife – something easy to conceal. Hard to tell if it was due to unplanned rage and a subsequent desire to leave a kind of signature, or a violent urge becoming unrestrained while performing a preconceived act.”

“Lestrade thought the M might stand for Moriarty. He suspected a copycat or an underling,” John supplied, sipping his tea.

“Stupid.” Sherlock shook his head, seemingly in lament for the cognitive skills of Scotland Yard’s finest.

“The second body spelt a case you’d be interested in.”

Sherlock spared a glance at his friend for the unintentional pun. “Yes, it signalled a potential serial killer. The second body was found in an alley behind the Inferno club with an S carved into her abdomen.”

“The killer had stabbed up and under her ribcage, tearing her phrenic nerve.” John glanced away from his friend and their methodical discussion of such violent acts, suddenly feeling as though his breakfast might be disagreeing with him. The phrenic nerve controls a person’s diaphragm, which in turn manages the lungs’ ability to breathe. Lacerating the nerve would not only require strength, but also, it was likely, the precision of medical training. The thought of a medical professional, who had taken the Hippocratic oath, performing such an act made him feel sick to his stomach. “The S was believed to have been inflicted ante-mortem, due to the amount and consistency of blood.”

Sherlock nodded, taking up his teacup. “The victim wasn’t heard screaming, even though the attack happened at around one thirty in the morning, relatively near the bustle of city nightlife. There was bruising around her mouth and jaw, as though she had been smothered non-fatally.”

John tried not to compare the cold, limp cadaver he had seen in the alley to the woman she had been, alive and in torturous pain for the twenty or so seconds it would have taken for her torn lungs to exhaust their supply of air.

“The killer has been careful.” Sherlock frowned, and John knew that he was both pleased and irritated by this. “Long brown hair has been found, which the police cannot identify as being from anyone in their system. No traces of their fingerprints or blood and no substantial amount of skin cells under the victims’ fingernails. They were unremarkable enough for the security guards at both venues to have no recollection of them, but persuasive enough to entice two people to leave with them into a side street.”

“Tell me about the pattern.”

At times such as these, Sherlock was reminded how much he truly appreciated John. Not just as someone who retrieved miscellaneous items for him or paid cab drivers or forced him to eat or sleep, and not even as his closest and most trusted friend, a person who understood his methods and his quirks like no other. During long or convoluted cases that dragged on and pushed him to his physical and mental limits, John was always there, encouraging him to rethink the information available to them, to reconsider the killer’s motives or methods, and reminding him of their ultimate goal. Unlike Lestrade or Donovan, John didn’t view him as an instrument through which the case could be solved and the criminal apprehended, but as a person who, like him, was trying to save people.

“The killer’s victims have had similar physical attributes: short or medium-length dark hair; tall – at least 175 centimetres; average build and fairly pale skin.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. “So, like you, basically.”

Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard him and John suspected that he hadn’t. “There is also the location: inner city, crowded bars and clubs, with the attack occurring in a back alley or neighbouring side street. All three have had fire-related names.”

“Three?” John’s head tilted along with the question. If Sherlock had been less focused on the case, he would have marvelled at how open John was, especially given the recency of their conflict. “You think it was her who drugged me?”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “There was another attack last night – Lestrade texted me about it. A woman was found with fatal knife wounds to the femoral arteries. She also had bruising around the mouth and neck, and an S burnt into her, all of which are believed to have been inflicted – or at least begun – ante-mortem. Similar appearance to the previous victims.”

“Where? Hold on – did you say she was _burnt_? _Ante-mortem_?” John looked stricken, and was definitely glad that he had finished eating.

Sherlock grimaced. “An alleyway a block from a club called Phoenix. I had thought that Bonfire was a surer bet but it appears that it was simply the more obvious choice. And yes. It’s… complicated.”

“What do you mean by –? Wait, so why… if the killer hadn’t intended me –?”

“John, you look nothing like the other victims.”

John cast a glare at his friend for the interruption, but it lacked any real heat.

“Your drugging was unrelated,” Sherlock said vaguely, giving the impression, as he so often did, that he knew more than he was willing to share. He avoided John’s eyes, finishing his tea, casting the cup aside and staring at his perfectly rounded fingernails.

“Sherlock…”

“It’s irrelevant, I assure you –”

“Sherlock, I swear to God, if you don’t –”

“The bartender! It was the bartender. Are you satisfied?” John couldn’t understand why Sherlock looked so annoyed. It wasn’t like _he_ was the one who had been incapacitated.

“Why would the bartender drug me? How do you know for certain?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes out of exasperation. When he spoke, it was to the ceiling, the pale column of his alabaster neck made strikingly visible to his companion. “I didn’t realise at the time. I gathered enough information about my surroundings for further examination when I collected you from the bar.” John scowled at the word ‘collected’ but remained silent. “The bartender was nearing the end of his shift – obvious from the frequency, even in the short period I was in there, that he glanced at his watch and the relief on his face when he did so. He was also intensely – _focused_ on you in a way that –” He paused for the briefest of moments, wherein his gaze flickered down and back up John’s frame. “– suggested interest of a kind deeper than is usually present between a worker and their customer.”

“You’re saying he was … interested in me?” John said slowly. He cursed himself for his childlike tone, as if he had just been told a long-held secret of the universe.

“I think attracted would be a more apt term.”

“Oh.”

John looked away, missing the slight and fleeting way that Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat. “How did it happen, then?”

“What?” Sherlock’s face was blank, which John knew meant that he was hiding thinly-veiled confusion.

“How was the third victim burnt? I hardly think holding a lighter to a knife would have much effect.”

“Hard to tell how exactly it was done.” Sherlock silently rejoiced in the conversation’s return to the realm of logos and murder. “The most probable method was the use of a blow torch.”

“Seriously?” John asked incredulously.

His friend nodded, a hint of uncharacteristic solemnity present in his expression. “I suppose a small canister of butane gas and an accompanying detachable flame gun would be easy enough to conceal in a purse. Forensics think that the killer began the process some time after the eventually fatal leg wounds were administered, so the victim bled out before it was completed. The killer then retraced the pattern with a knife.”

“And the letters, what do they mean? M, S, S?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a proud smile that made John’s stomach swoop strangely. “Me.”

“I’m sorry… what?”

“Me.” Sherlock’s eyes were positively glittering now.

“Sherlock…”

“She’s trying to get my attention.”

“Yes, I _know_ that, what with the victims all being your twins.”

Once again, Sherlock half-rolled his eyes. “Don’t be absurd, it’s never twins. It’s also mathematically impossible for four people to be twins.”

John turned an unwavering, deeply irritated gaze on his friend, who relented almost immediately.

“She’s spelling my initials,” he said with a long-suffering sigh.

“Your name doesn’t start with an M.” It wasn’t really a question, but John’s inflection rose towards the statement’s end, asking for clarification.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Sherlock said, his voice a mixture of distaste at the name and satisfaction at finding the answer. John suspected that he was at least a little pleased at the killer’s modus operandi revolving around him, as well.

“They were upside down.” A tiny amount of wonder dawned on John’s face.

“Yes. Stunningly simple, yet immensely effective – something made plain by Scotland Yard having seen exactly what they wanted to see. Anyone connected to Moriarty would never concern themselves with crimes so proportionately irrelevant.”

“The cab driver did – any of them would if it meant getting to you.”

“That proves the point, really,” Sherlock said sceptically. “If it’s been done before, why bother repeating the same tactics? They would lose the element of surprise. Anyway, we cannot be certain that I am the killer’s true target.”

“Seriously, Sherlock?” John’s voice was flat. He found it hard to believe that his friend could be so daft, and so wondered what part of his thought process he was attempting to conceal. “The victims’ appearances, your initials – hell, even the fact that they’ve been serial murders. Surely you can’t fail to see how this is designed to get your attention.”

“That’s so _obvious_ , John, don’t you see?” Sherlock leant forward without warning, his eyes widening, allowing John a glimpse of his trademark manic energy. “It may be to get our attention, but don’t mistake that for meaning I am ultimately the intended victim.”

All of a sudden, John understood. He placed his empty teacup atop his plate and put them aside on the bed. “Sherlock, listen to me.” He clasped his hands together in his lap and sat straighter so as to be as level with his flatmate as possible. “I’m sorry to remind you of something you loathe, but not everything is clever. Not everything is as brilliant as you wish it would be.” He swallowed, knowing full well that both of them were thinking of Moriarty and what Sherlock had told him of the conversation on Bart’s roof.

“I know that.” Sherlock’s jaw clenched, but his tone betrayed that he had accepted John’s point as valid. “I have considered it at length, however, we mustn’t dismiss that this may be a possibility.”

For an instant, they stared into one another’s eyes, weighing the significance of each argument.

“You think it’s me but I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock hummed in response.

“I agree that we should explore all necessary safety precautions tonight; both outcomes are feasible.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked upwards. “Good.”

“Good.”

“You should rest until tonight, then, if you’re planning to come along.”

“Of course I’m bloody coming, I’m not letting you go alone.” In spite of his words, John’s countenance had also relaxed slightly.

“I had expected so.”

“You should call Lestrade. I’m assuming you’ve yet to explain anything properly.”

Sherlock leaned back, hands resuming their place under his chin.

“He’ll want to know,” John prompted.

Sherlock only blinked for a moment, then abruptly bounded to his feet, collecting the remnants of their meal. John glanced warily toward him when he halted in the doorway. Although his back was turned, John sensed a certain slyness is his stance.

“I wonder what type of fan they are.”

“Sorry?”

“Type A or Type B.”

“Sherlock!”

Just before the door closed, John caught the edge of a grin on his friend’s face.

Sherlock only had four initials, and although the killer’s modus operandi had escalated by becoming more violent, John didn’t think that they would extend their spree beyond the four-victim formula. That meant that tonight would denote the end of the chase, for better or for worse.

_The game is on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cheesy ending. I couldn't help myself.


	5. Chapter 5

When John finally returned downstairs – a long nap, several cups of tea and a shower later – Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, engaged in a phone call that had clearly frustrated him. Judging from the tone of Lestrade’s muffled voice on the other end, John thought that the inspector was just as exasperated as his favourite consultant, as well as a fair bit confused.

John made his way to his chair and sat down, trusting his feeling that this could continue for a while.

“For the last time, if you could factor it into the limited amount of knowledge your level of intelligence allows you to retain at any given time –” Sherlock ground out, though was apparently cut off.

“Of course it’s not!” He threw his free hand in the air, beginning to pace into the sitting room.

“Lestrade, you first made my acquaintance almost _ten years_ ago and –”

“Yes, it’s frankly astounding how little –”

“This has nothing to do with Mycroft!”

John watched with fascination as the tension seemed to simply seep out of Sherlock while the detective sighed. His free hand came up from beside him, his fingertips sliding over the bridge of his nose before pausing over his closed eyelids.

Lestrade’s voice sounded placating now, probably reminding Sherlock that they needed to focus on their plan for tonight, not on whatever undoubtedly trivial thing for which he was being criticised.

“Very well, then,” Sherlock said, sounding resigned. “Yes, of course he’s coming. I’m sure he’s adequately rested. We’ll meet you there.”

He ended the call, finally opening his eyes and spinning to find John seated before him. Sherlock spent a moment keenly observing John’s appearance as a whole, picking out the subtle differences he had opted for in order to blend in as much as he could within the younger demographic of their intended destination.

Gone were John’s beloved cardigans, oatmeal-coloured jumpers and respectable trousers. In their place were a simple white t-shirt and dark wash denim jeans, the latter of which Sherlock thought made the blue of his eyes even more prominent.

He had also neglected to shave, a practice he usually performed daily with religious devotion. His five o’clock shadow made him look younger, owing to that ironic tendency within young men to grow facial hair in a bid to outwardly prove their maturity. The slightly dishevelled result somehow appeared both intentional and effortless.

The overall transformation managed to take years off his appearance, but Sherlock thought there was something missing. John regarded his watchful eyes warily.

An idea occurred to Sherlock that made the corner of his lips twitch upwards.

Very carefully – slowly enough that John could recoil if he so desired – Sherlock stepped forward, reached out a hand and mussed up John’s hair.

After fussing with it for a time, he stepped back to admire his handiwork and took notice of the amusement in his flatmate’s expression.

“Better?” John asked around a half-suppressed grin.

“Yes.”

“Should I bring a jacket?”

Sherlock considered for a moment, mentally rummaging through his memories of John’s clothing options. His leather jacket would work with the image, but would also hide his arms, something younger men with his physique would be unwilling to do. It would also give him the opportunity to retreat into it, inadvertently declaring his discomfort to the world.

“No. I daresay it will be hot inside, anyway.”

John just nodded, accepting without question.

Personally, John envied the simplicity of Sherlock’s outfit and how it so easily suited him. He had also foregone a jacket, opting instead for a plain black t-shirt, black jeans and black shoes. The ensemble made him appear even taller, even more unattainable and even more striking than usual.

John resented him just a little for it.

“Shall we go?”

Nodding, John followed his flatmate downstairs, calling a quick though sincere farewell to Mrs. Hudson. A cab magically appeared, as they were wont to do whenever Sherlock desired one.

The ride was quiet, both men feeling all too acutely the weight of their failed stakeout the night prior and their argument earlier in the day. John tried to push away his hurt, his concern for his friend’s safety, his horror at the abject violence of the killer’s previous three murders and the sense of nakedness he felt in his current attire. He focused on the adrenaline beginning to course in his veins, trying to allow it to fill him up and wash away his doubts.

Despite his best efforts, they began to creep back in.

It astounded him to no end that in all of Sherlock’s immense intelligence, with his deductions and predictions, the man thought it was unlikely that he was the killer’s ultimate target. John tried not to dwell on the man’s tendency to be his own downfall – and how he had been already, more than once.

His thoughts then shifted to the possibility of himself being the next victim. He was unable to stop his mind from filling with the image of himself, laying in an alleyway with his shirt torn off, his eyes wide and unseeing and a large, jagged H burnt into his chest. To an extent, he thought that he was already invisibly branded with the name of Holmes: memories came to him of the way Donovan and Anderson had looked at him at his first case, as if he were a freak by mere association with Sherlock; of Mycroft standing in a dank warehouse saying, _Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?_ ; of all the people he had met while on cases who hadn’t known of him by anything else but Sherlock Holmes’ blogger.

But then he thought of Sherlock himself, bringing him tea earlier and looking – in an endearingly bizarre manner – tentative. He thought of _I’d be lost without my blogger._ In spite of everything, it brought a small smile to his face.

When they arrived in the side street – the main road being where the club, Element, was located – Lestrade was waiting, cloaked in near-darkness but for the faint moonlight. An unmarked car sat nearby, and John spotted Donovan and another detective chatting not far off. Lestrade directed a nod of greeting at John and paused with his eyes on Sherlock as they approached. Then he cleared his throat.

“Hello, William.” There was the barest hint of glee behind the words.

“Gavin.”

Lestrade scowled. “You do actually know my name, don’t you? You just like to rile me up?”

“Of course, Grant.”

A particularly heated glare was directed at Sherlock. He paused.

“Gabriel?”

John barked a laugh at the sound of his friend’s voice shamming at timidity.

“I suppose you knew, then?” the inspector asked John.

“That he isn’t really called Sherlock? I did. The sheer pompousness of it seems to fit though, don’t you think?” A lopsided smile graced his face as he said it and he turned his head to gaze upon the man in question.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I assume you’ve spoken with Element’s security guards?”

“Donovan has, yeah.” The remnants of humour slipped from the inspector’s face. “No one particularly unsavoury has been sighted entering the club, but obviously with the killer’s record of discretion, that’s to be expected.”

“And the request?” Sherlock pressed.

“Was never going to happen.” Lestrade’s face tightened a bit in frustration. “We asked if the owner would consider allowing security to check bags on entrance,” he explained for John’s benefit. “He not-so-politely refused. Apparently business is more important than preventing murders.”

“Worth a try,” John offered with a shrug.

“Yeah, well…” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Guess it’s up to you two and Donovan.”

“Sorry?”

“She volunteered to go in with you. Well –” The inspector half-rolled his eyes. “– not exactly _with_ you, but she’ll also be inside at the same time as you both.”

“Did you say she volunteered?” John struggled to keep the surprise out of his voice. He saw that Sherlock looked more bored than especially bothered, surveying his surroundings and only half listening.

Lestrade only grinned, turning and waving Donovan to join them. As she approached, John realised that contrary to his original assumption, she wasn’t dressed in plain, casual clothes like Lestrade and the other detective, but in a long-sleeved, emerald green dress – which, upon further observation, he realised wasn’t really a dress, but a shirt and shorts in one. He glanced towards her feet, thinking about the possibility of an on-foot chase before the night was over; she was, sensibly, wearing flat shoes.

“I see you boys finally decided to show. Done with the domestic of the day?” Donovan said, typically coolly.

John tried to ignore just how correct she was.

“Why did you volunteer?” John questioned.

“Unfortunately, someone’s got to watch the kids,” she replied, smile venomous.

“And Lestrade’s too much of precious cargo, so you thought you’d proffer your services?” Sherlock spoke, surprising John so that he hadn’t time to properly stifle his snicker.

“That’s enough.” Lestrade sounded tired already. “Now don’t be idiots and keep your eyes open in there, all of you.”

They nodded.

“Good. You two, if you need help or think you’ve found them, signal Donovan and we’ll come running. Don’t want the place crowded with middle-aged men – it might generally cater to a slightly older demographic, but even that would look suspicious.” Lestrade gave them all a meaningful glance, the closest to a _please be safe_ as they were bound to get.

“Alright, boss. We’ll be in touch.” Donovan tapped the earpiece attached to her for surveillance and started walking. She would be the link between the inspector and the interior of the club, as they had neither enough evidence for legal access to its security footage nor the blessing of the owner to view it. 

Sherlock only nodded his head and turned away, John moving to follow him not long after.

“John – wait.”

Lestrade’s concerned tone was met with raised eyebrows.

“You seem a bit rattled – on edge, maybe. I need to make sure you’re not distracted. This is dangerous.” His voice was firm.

John considered telling the inspector what he no doubt already knew: that he was worried for his friend, for himself or for any other possible target that could be in that club right now. That his first instinct was to rush in and tell everyone inside to evacuate, to set off the emergency fire alarms if necessary.

He thought about telling him what he didn’t already know: about how stupid he still felt for letting his guard down the previous night, about the photograph and Sherlock’s too-recent breach of trust. He imagined that Lestrade would simply tell him that he should’ve known what he’d gotten into when he realised what Sherlock was like and continued to work with him, live with him, be friends with him. He imagined he’d have no idea why Sherlock took the photograph, but he’d probably say something unhelpful and even more unsettling than the issue itself, such as _Well, all the nice girls like a soldier, hey?_

God, where had that come from?

John appreciated the concern. The fact it was coming from the position of both a friend and an officer of the law meant that Lestrade definitely had John’s best interests at heart. He wouldn’t hold it against him if he simply said, _Yes, I’ve too much on my mind and I’m too worried about Sherlock, so I’d like to sit this one out, thanks._

But that went against every fibre of his being. If there was anywhere that he belonged, it was next to his best friend, protecting him as the familiar blaze of adrenaline surged through him.

“I know it is. I’m fine, I promise. And – thanks.”

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded once, apparently satisfied.

Just the corner of John’s mouth lifted before he turned to catch up with his friend.

_Into battle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently found out that there is actually a club near London called _Infernos_. So that was new.
> 
> Hope you liked the chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, so I'd really like to thank everyone who's sticking with this story. You're the best and I love you.
> 
> I hadn't originally planned for this chapter to end here, but I decided to split it because the length was getting a little out of hand.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think. x

Sherlock’s first impression of the club was that it was deafening, sticky and overcrowded.

At the same time, the way the all-consuming bass beat seemed to pulse through his very bones felt like revival, and watching the crowd of amateur dancers move as one being was akin to a renaissance painting. The immediate excess of sensory input made him recall not-unpleasant clubbing experiences of his university years.

John returned beside him before Sherlock had even noticed he’d gone. _(Focus.)_ Sherlock accepted the drink he offered and motioned to a lounging area slightly removed from the buzz of the main dance floor. Although the area was mostly populated by young couples – all, thankfully, still upright – it would provide a less overwhelming space for the two men to briefly assess their surroundings.

Apparently, John understood. He nodded and placed his free hand on Sherlock’s lower back while they made their way over, the gesture more one of reassurance than of guiding.

Sherlock was immensely appreciative of the small kindness: it gave him a physical point of connection with the case and their true objective, preventing his focus from whirling away onto the music, lights and hyperactivity of their location. John had a knack for doing that, Sherlock thought: reading and responding to Sherlock’s needs with ease, as if it was a routine they had followed and perfected over the course of their whole lives.

When they found a half-vacant lounge to sit on – blatantly ignoring the snogging couple intertwined at the other end – the two men were silent for a while, sipping their drinks and observing. Donovan made eye contact with them from her place near the bar and inclined her head in a marginal way. _I’m keeping an eye out. Pretend I’m not here._ She turned back to the man beside her, who appeared far more interested in her than the reverse, even from a distance. The thought made the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitch with mirth.

Sherlock felt more than heard John say something, but his voice was drowned out by the nonsensical lyrics blaring throughout the room. He leant in, feeling John’s breath brush his ear as his friend repeated himself.

“So we can rule out all the men here?”

Sherlock pulled away and nodded his confirmation. A few moments later, John beckoned him in again.

“We should dance.”

Sherlock blinked, wondering if he’d misheard.

“It would help us blend in and probably give you a better chance to look for anyone suspicious. I know –” he added, seeing that Sherlock was about to interject, “I know it’s a lot to take in, even for you. It would be too much to observe every detail and deduce every woman in all this chaos.”

 _Good to know we’re in agreement about that,_ Sherlock mused. John may have sometimes viewed him as more than he was, as someone who never forgot anything and who could process unlimited amounts of information in an instant, but that wasn’t true. In spite of his best efforts, he was just a man. Granted, he was equipped with a sharp eidetic memory and the ability to make rapid deductions based on available information he had trained himself to understand – but he also regularly made mistakes.

He revelled in challenging the impossible, but would gladly profess defeat if tasked with deducing an entire room of women, each one almost instantaneously, while weighed down by the superfluous background data that his senses absorbed.

John was looking at him hopefully, an expression Sherlock didn’t entirely know what to make of. Was he eager to dance? To secure a minute away from him? To find a pretty woman and buy her a drink?

His friend shifted and Sherlock’s mind snapped back into place: the case, the markings on the bodies, an unremarkable killer, unsuspecting victims.

“Yes, that would be advantageous,” he said into John’s ear.

They drained the rest of their small drinks and departed the safe vantage point – a little reluctantly, on Sherlock’s behalf. He tried to retain an awareness of John by his side as they moved into the throng.

For a moment, they stood still, looking everywhere but at each other. Then the press and surge of those around them became too strong a force to content with, an elbow into John’s back knocking him forward a step, and a high heel onto Sherlock’s foot compelling him into movement. Soon they were dancing together, and it was somehow both the easiest thing in the world and a task that required the most amount of self-control Sherlock could ever recall exerting. Every inch between them had to be fought for, the crowd vulture-like in its quest for more space.

Just as it occurred to Sherlock that perhaps the gap wasn’t that valuable a prize anyway, the brunette woman beside him turned. Very suddenly, it became apparent that she was now dancing with him, rather than simply next to him. The silkiness of her smile startlingly contrasted with the abrupt stiffening of John’s shoulders.

_The case, the markings on the bodies, an unremarkable killer, unsuspecting victims._

Sherlock spared her a forcibly lopsided grin, glancing downwards for a split second. _No purse; knee-high boots._

He leant into John and spoke quickly, “We’ll separate and dance with women. Remain vigilant and don’t have any more to drink.” The look he levelled at his friend wasn’t accusatory, but was firm nonetheless, the events of the previous night heavy in his mind. At an establishment as cramped and overflowing as this, it would be next to impossible to reach John and transport him to safety as quickly as he had done then.

John gave him a calculating look in return, before leaning in himself. “Okay. Don’t go too far.”

Sherlock nodded and turned to the insistent woman. Thankfully, she seemed to think nothing strange of the mens’ interaction. He had hoped that if he acted casual, angled his lower body away from John and neglected to touch his chest, then the woman would conclude that they were merely friends, attending a club with the intention of finding each other suitable women to go home with.

 _Or something like that._ Honestly, he didn’t care all that much what she thought, as long as she wasn’t suspicious.

Several excruciatingly long minutes later, Sherlock had concluded with absolute certainty that this woman was not the murderer. She had executed a surprising number of dance moves, all apparently in an effort to appear desirable, and most with the horrifying aim of either groping him or grinding on him. Despite her lack of a purse, he had considered it worth investigating her further; the height of her boots could have served as a potential place to stash a weapon.

He had been apprehensive of her forward enthusiasm in dancing with him. However, he had since surmised that what he thought could have been targeting him as a murder victim was actually just desperation.

_Late-twenties to early-thirties; most likely a failed university student; now working in a moderately active environment, probably a retail or grocery store, maybe both; doesn’t live in central London; here for a one or two night stay only._

For an instant, he missed the comfort of his Belstaff. And John.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Sherlock shouted, not willing to take the chance of leaning closer to her.

“Vodka raspberry. Thanks!” she yelled back with something close to a sultry smirk.

The pleasant smile slipped from his face as soon as he had turned away from her. He moved a small distance in the general direction of the bar before taking a sharp left and hurrying along, wishing for the crowd to swallow him and, for once, cursing his distinctly tall frame.

All too soon, he was positively accosted by a woman who was only just shorter than himself, with cropped, peroxide blonde hair. She took hold of his wrist, raising it high enough to spin herself closer to him.

 _For god’s sake,_ Sherlock lamented internally. Then he spotted a bulging clutch hanging around her left wrist and begrudgingly allowed his hands to be brought to her waist from his position standing behind her.

The woman was surprisingly strong, he had to admit. Each time he made to release his grip – even under the guise of grabbing her hand to spin her around once more – she held them there with an iron grip, reaching behind her to pull his waist toward herself. Roughly calculating what he believed to be her perceived strength against her height and weight, Sherlock thought that she was definitely physically capable of having committed the murders. Her hair was neither brown nor long, but such things could have been altered on short notice and it was clear from the roots that hers had been dyed recently.

But her height was all wrong. She was far too tall.

Just as he began to determine the best way to get away from the woman without causing a scene, she moved her neck aside in the same swift movement as her hands rose to grip the nape of his own. He had barely enough time to register what was happening, as she pulled his head down towards her newly-exposed jugular. With a sharp inhale of heavy, oxygen-deprived air, he realised that she was trying to force him to kiss her.

“You look too much like my – cousin!” Sherlock exclaimed hurriedly, rushing to extricate himself from the uncomfortable situation. He ducked out from her hands and bestowed a concentrated, firm shove onto her upper back.

He was greeted with a brief flash of her affronted expression before he turned, doing his best not to visibly sprint away, heedless of potential casualties. As he neared the bar, eyes searching frantically, he spotted Donovan and thought that never before had he been so relieved to see the sergeant.

She noticed him mid-sentence, her lips shaping a most likely prepared excuse that would also notify Lestrade of Sherlock’s undoubtedly agitated state. Sherlock met her half way, glancing behind her at the man she had left – a different one to the stage-five clinger who had been with her when they first arrived.

“What is it?” Sherlock was glad Donovan had the sense to skip her usual show of bravado.

“Too close an encounter. I’m fine now.” As he spoke, Sherlock turned slightly away from the sergeant, gaze roving over the crowd.

“Like, little green men?”

“What?” He glanced back just in time to see her eyes rolling.

“Nothing. Do you have anything or can I go back to pretending to care about a man’s problems? Oh, wait.” For once, although Donovan’s smile was plainly humorous, it was without malice.

A few seconds later, it was clear Lestrade’s voice in her ear had given her words of admonishment, for the grin left her face as quickly as it had appeared.

“You are actually okay, right?” she asked, leaning a little closer to him.

“Yes, I – Yes.” Sherlock steeled himself and nodded. Unable to continue looking at the concern on her face, he returned to his search. “Have you seen John?”

“Er – yes.”

“What? What happened to him?” Sherlock rounded on her, chin raised and eyes narrowed, but she had turned to face the dance floor, too.

“Nothing!”

“Why did you say it like that?”

“When I last saw him, he seemed… occupied.”

“Excuse me?”

With a sigh and the momentary flicker of her eyes closing and reopening, Donovan stepped closer to him.

“He’s over there.” She pointed to a spot on their left, careful not to make her gesture too obvious. “Like I said – occupied. I’m sure he’s still, er, on the case, though.”

Sherlock followed her gaze and was nothing short of appalled at what he saw.

John was in the thick of the dance floor, performing some approximation of dancing while in the embrace of a woman. Sherlock squinted to get a better look at her. She was even shorter than John and had cropped black hair. He glimpsed her features as John twirled her, the two laughing heartily, and discovered that she had a highly symmetrical face, with brown skin and almond-shaped eyes.

He wasn’t exactly the best judge of that area and short of asking Donovan – a low he refused to sink to – he had no real way to confirm his belief, but he was reasonably certain that the woman was not what he would assume to be average looking. In any case, the only one of her physical characteristics that matched their description of the murderer’s was her sex.

 _Maybe that’s the only one that matters to John,_ a voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind whispered. Treacherous thing.

Sherlock stood with the sergeant for long enough to watch John pull the probably-unnecessarily-pretty woman close enough to speak into her ear, before he decided he’d had enough.

If John wasn’t going to be of any significant assistance, he would solve this stupid case on his own. Hadn’t he done that for years before he’d ever met the man?

God, how had he done it? Now, the thought of conducting a case on his own was virtually repulsive.

He shook himself for a moment. _The case, the markings on the bodies, an unremarkable killer, unsuspecting victims._ Just the thought of losing John made cases with serial killers less compelling – what was becoming of him?

He could remain focused without John; he had no other choice. Any wavering of his concentration in a situation such as this could be fatal.

Sherlock spun on his heels toward Donovan. “Since John is clearly fine, I’m going to dance.”

“Sherlock –” she started.

“Clearly – _fine_ ,” he articulated, enunciating each word with precision. _Don’t argue with me._

Donovan levelled a calculating glance at him, the slightest hints of tightness around her eyes giving away her concern. “Here, then.” She held out her cup.

“I’ve had one drink already, and I have no intention of being inebriated, thanks.”

“It’s _water,_ you idiot.”

“Oh.”

He took it somewhat meekly, passing her back the empty cup.

“Go forth and fend off the groping, freak.” Donovan’s parting words were accompanied by a mock-salute.

Sherlock only grimaced.


	7. Chapter 7

Although he truly hadn’t thought it possible, being in the heart of the crowd was worse the second time around. It seemed that Sherlock’s reprieve from it, however short-lived, had reacclimatised him to the notion of personal space.

He assumed it was due to the amount of time that had passed in the interim, allowing even more copious amounts of alcohol to be imbibed, but now the part of the club set aside for dancing was no longer being used for that purpose: it was merely a cesspool of sweat, complete with errant hands and elbows and feet. More than once, Sherlock was subjected to the uncomfortable sensation of a drink being spilled on his shoes, or splattering up the hem of his jeans. He was immeasurably grateful for his forethought; he shuddered to think of his dress shoes sustaining such defilement.

Squeezing his way through the outskirts into the thick of the crowd was a challenge in itself, which he soon realised could be achieved by moving in time with the music, rather than simply trying to elbow through gaps between clusters of people. They tended not to like that. Besides, he preferred not to do more damage to his shoes than was strictly necessary.

Getting lost in the music was far too easy, and if he didn’t concentrate on preventing it, he was in danger of having it consume him. Halfway across to the spot he had aimed to reach, the beat changed mid-song. The application of diminution saw it pound into double time and take Sherlock’s self control with it. Before he knew it, he wasn’t just inching sideways a little awkwardly, while he carefully calculated each motion to match the song’s rhythm: he was dancing.

Unlike the push and pull, ebb and flow of waltzing, in dancing there are no rules besides those you construct yourself, no squares but those you fight for with elbows and sheer determination. This dancing was freedom.

And wrong.

God, it would’ve been so much easier if Lestrade had just given him his own earpiece, the git.

_(Focus!)_

Sherlock turned to the first woman nearest to him who was mostly unoccupied and pliant enough to turn away from the people dancing with her. They were clearly not particularly close friends of hers.

A compact and tasselled brown handbag hung from a long strap that was strung across the woman’s torso, and her hair was bleached with pink, blue, red and probably some other shades, too – it was difficult to tell in this light. Sherlock immediately knew she wasn’t who he was looking for, from her bitten nails, unsteady movements and the dreamy, childlike grin that adorned her face. Not to mention that she was much too short, and far more lacking in control of her motor skills than a violent murderer would be in this situation.

The girl stumbled once more, lurching so rapidly in Sherlock’s direction that he was forced to catch hold of her wrists before they both tumbled. Was she really that intoxicated?

A frown formed on his face as he spun around to the group she had been dancing with. “How drunk is she?”

Two of the small circle heard him, appearing wholly unconcerned when they looked at the girl. She was decidedly nestling into his shoulder, her eyelids suspiciously droopy. One of the women shrugged and the other leant in, speaking in an aloof manner, “Who cares? About time she found her boundaries. Never has enough to let loose, does she?”

Sherlock scowled, thinking quickly.

He turned and began to stride once more to the bar, pulling the distracted woman along behind him by a death-grip on her wrist. Donovan met him there.

“Why do I even bother trying to blend in? If you wanted me to babysit, you should’ve invited me to –”

“Enough! This woman has been drugged and I strongly suspect she’s underage.”

The sergeant gaped. “A victim?”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock grunted.

Donovan’s lips slowly came together again: she’d understood.

“Search her purse for authentic identification.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Donovan nodded firmly. They both knew what she really meant was _I’ll take care of her, go and catch the criminal._

The woman was gently relocated to Donovan’s grasp, who took charge in picking their collective way towards the exit. Sherlock watched the sergeant’s mouth move, delivering an explanation to Lestrade. Civilian safety was paramount.

The people who next filled the role of Sherlock’s dance partners were not a blur, although they were brief acquaintances.

A primary school teacher, lacking the physical strength to have been the murderer, had her divorce finalised that day; her only current intention was to become inebriated and find someone to sleep with. A veterinarian celebrating her sister’s birthday, not a frequent visitor at these kinds of establishments, had a criminal record, so DNA from the hair samples would have found a match in the police database. A nurse-in-training was on exchange from America and had only arrived in the last 24 hours. An automobile mechanic, with insufficient height to be their culprit, was spending a weekend away from her three children.

They were all abandoned with increasing degrees of abruptness and disdain. A male carpenter approached Sherlock, with passably similar characteristics to those believed to be the killer’s. He was observed and likewise, quickly disregarded.

 _Better to be thorough,_ Sherlock justified, unable to escape the thought of John, sprawled out and still in a dirty alleyway, his abdomen branded with the letter H. _There’s always something._

He shoved all thoughts of his best friend from his mind. John had been so worried about him just the day before — and a couple of hours ago, even after he had discovered Sherlock’s latest deception — but now it seemed that he hadn’t a care for the safety of his flatmate. Had the anger finally set in? Had he realised that he didn’t care about Sherlock as much as he’d thought? _There is nothing you could do that would drive me away from you for good._

Sherlock should know by now that when something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. John was one of the best things to ever happen to him — if not the best thing — but he was still human. Even he had limits.

No more of this. _The case, the markings on the bodies, an unremarkable killer, unsuspecting victims._

The detective turned absentmindedly to a woman with a soft smile and unassuming eyes, stepping just barely into her personal space – just enough to capture and hold her attention. A slight sheen of sweat adorned her hairline, but the woman’s breathing was regulated as if she were home seated in her living room, doing something so subdued as observing the frivolity of evening television.

He took note of her feet – sporting faux-suede boots with a solid, supportive heel. _Fitness instructor of sorts, probably a personal trainer._ The left pocket of her high-necked, short crimson playsuit dipped with the weight of her mobile phone, though clearly not with a wallet. A small purse was clutched in her left hand, which he assumed held the unaccounted-for item. She was looking at him with an expression of casual interest that spoke of intrigue, but not of desperation. Sherlock almost sighed with the sudden relief that flooded through him following that deduction.

“Hi.” She spoke up to him a little shyly. The words were lost to the music, but the movement of her lips was easily discernible.

“Hello.”

They danced for a while. Sherlock observed her mostly out of the corner of his eyes, his gaze not straying too far from her face.

The woman was single and had never married. Probably not heterosexual; most likely not homosexual either, judging by the present circumstances. Although currently house- and cat-sitting for a long-time close colleague and his husband, she usually resided somewhere outside of town with two roommates.

_Recently switched to storing this outfit folded rather than hung up, although the change was only meant temporarily. Choice of clothing allowed for airflow in case of overheating, but a length, thickness and fabric type that could also supply some source of warmth – she had planned on a night out, but not recently enough that the weather could be properly taken into account. The style and supportiveness of the boots made them versatile, a necessary property when packing a minimal amount of clothing for a week or more away. Some sparse patches of cat fur clung to the inner side of her boots, as if a cat had unexpectedly brushed its way through her legs when she was leaving – she (stupidly) had put them on before departing the house. Not her cat, not her house._

“Sherlock, by the way,” he offered eventually, prompted by some unknown urge. It was hard to know the length of time one could feasibly dance with a stranger in a club before it became a requisite that someone got a drink or went to the bathroom. Or they both left together.

She had no pins in her hair and wore no bracelets or necklace. _Would make sense if she were living out of a suitcase, as accessories take up valuable space._ Sherlock knew that he was wasting precious time, that he should move on to the next woman – the next potential murderer. He had the repulsive sense that there was something he was missing, a stray thought nagging at the edge of his stifled mind, just beyond the clutches of his fingertips. Something was strange, different, notable.

The woman’s mouth moved again, presumably returning the favour of supplying her name. Her smile was somewhere between amused and oddly knowing. As she had declined to lean even a little towards him, her words were once again indistinct, even to Sherlock’s exceptional hearing abilities. _Harlow? Shadow? Shiloh?_

It didn’t matter all that much, he supposed. He just had to deduce whatever it was he had failed to pick up already, and then she could be disregarded.

The bass continued to thud onwards like the pulsing heartbeat of the club. The possibly-crucial, possibly-trivial detail continued to elude the spotlight of his perceptions.

Two sparkling, silver-painted fingernails brushed back a lock of her pitch-black hair, and the image of John leaning close to his companion’s ear flashed through Sherlock’s traitorous mind. He had very nearly had enough of this ridiculous emotional business, a voice in the back of his mind decided resolutely. For once, he craved the nothingness of sleep. Or cocaine.

All of a sudden, it became startlingly apparent to Sherlock that a couple was watching him. A man and a woman standing not far to his left were quite obviously trying and failing to monitor him in any kind of covert manner. Mentally cursing his daft fascination with this ordinary woman, he excused himself with a hurried, “Be right back.”

He didn’t catch the flash of her eyes.

As he pushed his way through the heavy, sluggish crowd, the pair seemed almost surprised when he made in their direction. For a moment it appeared the woman would flee: she stilled with eyes wide, like a child hearing a noise in the next room while they were eating from the biscuit jar. Then a slow smile broke over her face that almost made Sherlock pause, in the midst of nebulous confusion.

Too soon, he had reached them. Forgoing words, he raised his eyebrows, with an expression like concrete gracing his face.

“Er, we’re sorry, mate.” The man spoke directly into the detective’s face and it felt like every cell in Sherlock’s brain started simultaneously screaming at him to move as far away from this stranger’s breath as possible. “Me wife’s a bit of a fan, y’know.” He inclined his head in her direction.

The wife in question was practically drooling and seemed temporarily incapable of speech.

“Couldn’t buy you a drink, could we?”

Some remote part of Sherlock’s mind considered that in another establishment, on a night devoid of a case, and with John by his side, he might have been persuaded to be appreciative of the offer. Tonight, he only levelled a condescending glare at the intoxicated man.

“No.”

Sparing a glance in a half-hearted search for John behind the couple’s heads, he turned on his heel and began to shuffle back to his previous spot. Without warning, a hand grabbed his wrist and he was unceremoniously yanked forward a few paces. The offending hand belonged to the woman he had thought timid and unimposing; her smiling face now loomed before his with unanticipated confidence.

It occurred to him that he had begun to thoroughly despise this case and the damage it had inflicted on his faculties.

“Excuse me, but I believe you owe me a dance.” This time, her voice was strong and clear.

_Where the hell is John?_

“I really ought to –”

“Oh, I do hope you’ll reconsider, William. I promise I can be very persuasive.” The woman’s grin widened, seeming to glitter with the threat of thirty-two knives – or, perhaps, just one. And a blowtorch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated note: if I saw Sherlock out at a club, I would absolutely be that woman who stares and basically drools over him, but is unable to speak in his presence.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed the chapter!


End file.
